


Brownman: Origins

by rage_quitter



Series: Immortal FAHC Origin Stories [7]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4209672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rage_quitter/pseuds/rage_quitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Street life sucks, and even more when you're at the wrong end of a gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brownman: Origins

Ray hasn’t lived in a home in a long time, not since 1979. It’s not that Mama Narvaez kicked him out. She pleaded with him to stay, you’re only a child, the street is no place for a sixteen year old. But his family was poor as dirt, and she worked three jobs trying to pay for their shitty apartment, for food, for clothes for him and his brothers and sisters. Ray was the oldest and did the best he could to help out, but it was too much. So when he was sixteen he packed himself an old backpack with clothes and a blanket and a meager amount of food and cash. He told his mother he would be back, he would help her. He set out for the streets of New York City.

It was 1986. People everywhere were colorful and loud and pickpocketing was easy. He sold stolen drugs and all the money he didn’t use to buy himself food went to his mother. He didn’t tell her where he got it, just pleaded with her to use it. I’ll get more money, Mom, don’t worry, he told her. We’ll be rich one day, just you wait.

So far, that day was a long way away. He was getting desperate. He’d been mugged, and spent days in unfamiliar neighborhoods hiding from gangs and cops. He had two dollars in his pocket and a knife in his sleeve. His glasses were held together by duct tape and so were his shoes. He was twenty three years old. It was October, and he was gearing himself up for another cold winter.

That night his stomach was cramping from hunger. His fingers were twitchy and his breath steamed in the chilly air. He felt less than human. He needed to eat, but two dollars would not fill his stomach.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. He shrugged himself up off the sidewalk and ambled to a quieter street. It wasn’t his favorite neighborhood. Few people came out at night here, because of the gang wars Ray avoided getting himself involved in. But this was his only chance. He slumped against a building, in an ally, barely visible in the dark, looking for all the world like the pathetic homeless kid he was. He watched people pass him by, getting fewer and farther between. Finally a man walked past him, wearing fairly nice clothes. Ray spotted the man’s wallet in his back pocket.

“Sir?” Ray asked, raising his head and letting an exhausted expression take over his face. The man stopped and turned. “Sir, could you please spare a few dollars? I’m starving.”

The man scoffed. “Sure you are, kid. Gonna go spend it all on drugs, I bet,” he sneered, looking him up and down. “You people are all the same.”

Ray kept his face carefully controlled despite the anger rising in his throat. “No, sir, I don’t do drugs.” It was the truth, mostly. “I was kicked out. Girlfriend was with another man and, well.”

“Believable story,” the man said. “Beat it.” He turned away.

Ray let his knife fall into his hand and stepped behind him. He pressed the tip of the knife into the man’s back. “Look, asshole, I’m fucking starving. Give me your money,” he snarled.

The man gulped. “Okay, okay, my wallet is in my back pocket, take it, don’t hurt me!”

Ray slipped the wallet from the man and with deft fingers slipped it in his own pocket, keeping his knife to the man’s ribcage. “Now you’re gonna walk away and never talk that way to anyone again, you racist fuck.”

Ray stepped away from the man, already thinking about where to get food.

Before he was aware of what was happening, the man was pulling a pistol out of his jacket and aiming it at Ray. Ray took one step back before he fired two shots squarely into his chest.

It hurt a lot, but only for a few seconds. Ray’s vision went black immediately and the world stopped existing.

He woke up gasping on a bench. He was a few blocks from where he’d been shot. His heart was pounding in his chest, oh god, he was alive, what happened? That was the strangest dream ever.

He looked up to find himself staring at a guy who was probably a year or two older than he was with the curliest red hair he’d ever seen and freckles smattered over his face under his startled brown eyes and glasses.

“Uh…” the red haired man said. “Are you… okay?”

“Um, yeah, I’m fine,” Ray said unconvincingly.

The man’s eyes looked down at Ray’s chest. Ray followed his look and blanched at the blood covering his shirt. “Oh. Oh fuck. Oh god.”

“Hey, hey, calm down,” the man said. “What happened?”

“I—I don’t know, I just—that guy shot me!” Confusion, fear, and anger swirled in Ray’s mind. “How am I alive?!”

“Those shots, that was you?”

“That… yeah. How long ago was that?”

“A few minutes ago. Jesus…” the guy shook his head. “I—all this time, I thought I was the only one…”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

The guy had a weird look in his eyes. “Look at your chest.”

“What.”

“Seriously, just look.”

Uncertain, Ray pulled away the collar of his shirt and squinted in the darkness. On his chest were two scars, silvery looking, side by side where he’ been shot. “What the fuck…”

The guy laughed, sounding incredulous. “Holy shit, kid, welcome back to life.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either!” He held out a hand. “I’m Michael Jones.”

Ray took his hand and Michael helped him up. “Ray Narvaez, Jr.”

“Boy, do I have a lot to tell you.”

Michael took Ray out to a fast food place, where he let Ray stuff his face and listen to story. Immortal, he said. Michael showed him the silvery scars on his arms and told him they were criss crossed all his body. He’d never aged since World War One and every time he died he came back to life, the only marks being those scars from the first death. If Ray wasn’t wearing Michael’s jacket to cover the blood on his shirt after being shot, he wouldn’t have believed it in a million years.

They stuck together, Ray and Michael, forming a quick bond stronger than glue. Stronger than death. Ray introduced him to his mother as a new friend. Michael made Ray stay at his apartment. Michael had two jobs. One was as an electrician. He was most known, however, as a dangerous mercenary. That was where the majority of his cash flow came from.

Ray went on a job with him once and fell completely in love. He begged Michael to teach him everything, and his friend happily obliged. Ray learned to pick locks, properly wield a knife, and shoot like a champ. He found his calling when he picked up a sniper rifle and with a little practice, even Michael was impressed. Ray was fast, light, and accurate. They formed a powerful duo.

Ray knew Michael was right as time passed; he didn’t age. Soon he couldn’t visit his mother anymore. He sent her money through street rats with excuses and apologies.

Michael was getting restless over the next few years. Ray wanted to stick with him. They packed up and moved across the country, to a city called Los Santos, a new beginning for rising criminals. Ray didn’t like to think of himself as a criminal, just a mercenary. Michael had bigger ambitions, though.  Los Santos was dangerous and thrilling.

They were quickly hired for a job by a crew, a surprisingly powerful one made up of just three main people. They never met the crew face-to-face until the day of the heist.

The job went smoothly until the stupid British nerd got shot. Michael panicked, and Ray wasn’t able to shoot the cop aiming for him fast enough. When they both showed back up, everyone was surprised.

Geoff asked them to join the crew as soon as they were driving off in the getaway car. And so Ray was a member of the Fake AH Crew.

Mama Narvaez did, indeed, spend the rest of her life in a lovely house, and never had to worry about money again.

**Author's Note:**

> And thus ends the origin stories, until or unless B-Team's get written. I have some ideas, but nothing in fic form yet.


End file.
